Paradise Found (5 page)

She moaned.

He jerked away and let out a curse. Her arms fell away. “Christ,” he muttered, levering himself off her to sit on the edge of the bed. “I think it's time you left,” he said in a quiet voice that reminded her of the balmy breeze that fills the air just before a hurricane rips reality in half.

Dismissed. Just like that. Was that how he got rid of his women? A one-liner, straight up, no sugar? She wasn’t his woman and she wasn’t leaving until they reached some sort of compromise. “We have things to discuss.”

“Not now.”

“When?”

“Later. Ten o'clock.”

“Where?”

“My patio.” He paused a second, then added, “In the hot tub.”

“You've got to be kidding.” What was he up to now?

“Do you hear me laughing? If you want to talk, be in my hot tub at ten o'clock. No pencil, no paper, no tape recorder, and no fancy technical terms. Got it?”

Sara scrambled to her feet. “I've got it,” she mumbled. “I'll see you at ten.” She turned to leave. Now what? How was she supposed to get out of here when the only light in the room came from the digital clock on the nightstand? It would illuminate two, maybe three steps and then she'd be in total darkness again. If only she hadn't lost her flashlight.

“If you don't get out of this room right now, I'm going to think you came here to do more than talk.”

At least he didn’t remind her they'd been doing more than talking a few minutes ago. She took two small steps forward. Then two more. She would crawl before admitting she needed his help. Sara put her hands in front of her, feeling the way for obstacles intruding on her path. Step by half step, she moved in the general direction of the door.

“Need some help?”

“No.” A half second later her big toe crashed into a hard object and she yelped.

“What the hell.” He grabbed her by the arm and propelled her forward, leaving her no choice but to put one foot in front of the other. When they reached the door, he pulled it open and waited for her to pass.

“I could have found my own way,” she said as he led her down the dark hallway to her room.

“Right.”

His tone told her he knew she was lying. She should have given it up, but something in his superior attitude would not let her. “I was disoriented. This is the first time I've been in your room…and it was dark.”

They'd reached her door. Matt leaned over and opened it for her. His bare shoulder brushed hers and she jumped back. “Good night, Sara,” he whispered. “Don't come to my bedroom again unless you're planning to stay. I don't like a tease.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. By the time her brain formulated a half-intelligent response, he was gone.

She wasn't coming. Not after the way he'd treated her last night. It had been uncalled-for and rude. So why had he done it? More to the point, why did he care? That was the hell of it, he didn't know. Didn't have a clue. And he'd spent the rest of the predawn morning trying to figure it out.

It was acceptable for him to act like a bastard these days. Even expected. Since the accident he could say and do most anything and women still came back for more. Not that there had been a bevy of female companionship in the past few months. He'd ordered them all away, but initially they'd swarmed him, unrelenting in their pursuit. Now he only had Gabrielle to contend with every once in a while, when she decided to flit in from Milan or Paris or wherever in the hell she'd been.

So why should he care if one mouthy female from Pittsburgh was insulted? None of this would have happened if Sherlock Holmes hadn't come snooping around his room in the middle of the night. His defenses kicked in, telling him she got what she deserved, but self-justification didn't make him feel any better. Nothing would, except an apology.

Matt sighed. He hadn't apologized to a female since he was sixteen years old and found his hand up Heather McAllister's sweater. She'd only protested so he wouldn't think she was ‘one of those girls.’ By the end of the night, she'd unbuttoned her sweater, took both hands and told him two were better than one. It had been that way ever since. No challenges, no maybes. They'd all been eager, willing participants—in business and in bed.

Not this one. Not that he wanted to bed her, because he didn't. But he did want her to be a little more compliant, not so inquisitive.
Malleable
, that was the word. Like a piece of clay he could shape and design to his liking. Then they could both glide through the rest of her stay with a minimal amount of emotional expenditure.

The sliding glass door scraped open above the low hum of the hot tub jets. Had she decided to come after all? A tangy scent filled the air. Citrus. Matt took a deep breath, inhaling the fresh fragrance.

“Mister Matt, I bring you your juice and fruit.”

Matt frowned. That was not the low throaty voice he had expected to hear. “Thank you, Rosa. What do we have today?” he asked, pretending interest. Rosa believed if a person were eating, the world always looked brighter.

She rattled off the contents of the tray and their location. “Today we have your fresh-squeezed orange juice at two o'clock, grapefruit cut in half at six o'clock, two oranges, peeled and sliced at nine.” She paused. “Oh, and a wedge of fresh-picked lemon at twelve.”

“Two, six, nine, twelve. Got it,” Matt said, laying his head back against the edge of the hot tub, arms outstretched on either side. Lemon. Oranges. Citrus. His mind wandered. Sara.

“Would you like anything else, Mister Matt?”

“No. This is fine, Rosa. Just leave the tray in the usual spot.”

“Yes.” She fussed around another minute, then left. He pictured her waddling away, black and gray bun flopping back and forth. Matt reached for a slice of orange from the nine o'clock position. Good old Rosa, she knew how to take care of him. Now if she could only learn to cook something that didn't have chiles or frijoles in it.

“Sorry I'm late.”

He paused, the orange slice halfway to his mouth. Sara. “I thought you weren't coming.”

“I wasn't,” she answered, her throaty voice deeper than usual.

“But?”

“I came to apologize. I never should have invaded your privacy.”

Matt heard a small splash. She must be in the water now.

“I'm sorry, Matt.”

He liked the way his name rolled off her tongue. Like a soft song. Or a caress. He thought of last night and the way her fingers had stroked the back of his neck. He cleared his throat. “I'm the one who should apologize. I was out of line.”

“It's okay. Let's just forget it.”

Right. That was like asking someone to forget a pink-striped elephant. “You don't want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you doctor types wanted to talk about everything,” he said, biting off a chunk of orange. “You know, why did you do it, what were you thinking, what did it feel like—”

“No.” The denial came too quick, but followed with a calmer, “It was a simple kiss. Nothing more.”

Didn’t she know when a man had his tongue rammed halfway down a woman's throat it was not considered a simple kiss? But if she wanted to play it cool, he could too. “Good,” he said. “We'll just chalk it up to misguided groping in the dark.”

“That won't happen again,” she added.

“I sure as hell don't want it to,” he said, wondering at the truth of his words.

“Nor do I.”

“Great.” He had no desire to feel her warm body pressed against his again. None at all.

“Great,” she echoed. Had he just heard a tremor in her voice? Of course not. That would mean last night had affected her and she'd just admitted it hadn't.

Matt was more than ready to let go of the subject. He didn't even know why he'd dwelt on it so long, when she'd given him the perfect out. Not many women did that, but he was learning that this one wasn't like most women. In fact, he'd never met a woman quite like her.

He took a deep breath and said, “Let's start over. Hi. I'm Matt Brandon. Nice to meet you.” He extended his right hand.

She let out a small laugh. “Hi. Sara Hamilton.” She placed her hand in his and they shook. Contact lasted less than three seconds before she pulled her hand away.

“Care for some fruit?” He gestured toward the tray.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Help yourself, just don't mess up my clock. Rosa arranges all my food in relation to the hands of a clock,” he explained.

“So that's how you did it! That first night, I kept wondering how you knew where everything was. I made such a mess of my food and you didn't even lose a shred of lettuce.”

“That comes from much practice. Rosa thinks everything should be wrapped in a tortilla with chilies and hot sauce.”

“She's a sweetheart,” Sara said.

“Yes, she is. But, I got the impression you two didn't hit it off very well,” Matt said, popping a wedge of grapefruit in his mouth.

“Well, we didn't, at first. Actually, she was the one who had reservations about me, but everything's fine now.” She hesitated and he felt her eyes on him. What color were they? Green? Blue? “I had to promise her that I wouldn't hurt you.”

“And do you always keep your promises?” The question was light, almost flippant, but he wanted to hear her answer.

“I try very hard to keep my promises.”

Matt wished in that moment that he believed in promises. A light breeze blew by, filling his senses with citrus. Was it Sara or the fruit? There was one way to find out. “Did we eat all of the oranges?”

“All gone.”

“Lemons?”

“Gone, too.”

“Then, it's you I smell,” he said.

“I smell?”

“Like a special blend of oranges with a hint of lemon.”

“I know it's not the latest craze but I've worn it for years.” She sounded almost defensive. “The strong stuff gives me migraines.”

“I like it. Very refreshing.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

He’d bet from her reaction that compliments made her uncomfortable. Maybe she didn’t get many, but he found that hard to believe. The quiet hum of the hot tub filled the ensuing silence and Matt slid further down, resting his head along the edge of the tub. The warm water swirled around his body, pulling him into its soothing caress that relaxed his body and his brain…

“I know I'm not supposed to ask you any personal questions…”

Wham! Just when he started to relax a little and let his guard down, she hit him with a fastball. In the groin. “But you're going to anyway.”

“Would you tell me about the accident?”

Here it comes. “I'm sure you read all about it in the papers. They're much more eloquent than I am.”

“I'd like to hear your version.”

It was a simple request, honest and sincere, without a hint of vulgar curiosity or blatant demand. Maybe that’s why he started talking. “There's not much to tell. It was a damned freak accident. I went to Vail for Thanksgiving, like I've been doing the last five years or so. Adam was there, too. The snow was great, lots of powder. It was twilight, and I wanted one more run.” He rubbed his jaw, remembering. “Adam had already gone in to get ready for dinner, so I went out alone. I flew down, faster than I ever had before, hit the ridge and went airborne. It was great, just like flying. Until I spotted a body lying right in my landing path. I swerved and hit a tree head-on.”

“And?” Sara's soft, low voice drifted to him.

“I must have blacked out, because the next thing I remember was waking up in a hospital.” He still remembered the antiseptic and alcohol odor of his hospital room. “I could see, but it was blurry. Three days later I was blind.”

“What did the doctors say?”

That was the million-dollar question every busybody, bloodhound, and media monger wanted to know. Would Matt Brandon ever see again? They'd dogged him, stuck the microphone in his face, snapped pictures from trees, and continued their relentless pursuit to the iron gates of his home. And still he refused to answer them. That was his press agent's job.

But Sara wasn't a bloodhound searching for dirt. “Matt?”

The words spilled out. “The formal diagnosis was Mild Traumatic Brain Injury, otherwise known as MTBI. Seems I developed a clot at the site of the injury. That's what caused the blindness.”

“But it doesn't necessarily mean it's permanent, does it?” she asked.

He shrugged. “You know the odds. Every month after six reduces my chances. It's been seven.”

“Do the doctors agree?”

“You know doctors.” Matt gave her a dry smile. “Afraid to commit to anything anymore. Too many lawsuits. They've given me some real scientific advice.” He raised one finger at a time. “Time. Patience. Periodic medical evaluation, whatever that means, and concessions.”

“Concessions?”

“White cane. Seeing-eye dog. Braille.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And everybody's telling me what I have to do. As if I didn't know I'll never drive a car again, or ski, or do any of the thousand things I took for granted. They're all standing over me, spoon-feeding the have to’s and must not’s down my throat like I'm some kind of baby. I don't have to do a goddamn thing I don't want to. Not until I'm ready.”

“You're right, you don't.”

She was like his conscience, spurring him on. “My family can't accept it. I've always been the strong one and they want me to deal with it, so they can stop feeling guilty. My editor calls me every other day, asking about my next book. And if he's not on the phone, it's my agent. They all want something, every damn one of them.” His voice fell five octaves. “I say screw 'em all.” He sucked in air as though he'd just finished a fifty-yard dash. What the hell had come over him? He'd said volumes more than he had intended.

How had she gotten him to open up like that? Anger gripped him, fierce and hot, pulsing through him like a brushfire gone wild. Sara Hamilton knew how to draw a person out, get him to divulge deep dark secrets without realizing it until it was too late. Until he'd told the tales, relived the fears, unleashed the demons. Like he'd just done.

Damn her.

He felt used. Not that it made any sense, because it didn't. But he needed anger right now, needed to hold onto it to keep from getting sucked into the undertow of naked truth and grim reality. One person stood in his way. Sara Hamilton. She'd almost slipped past his defenses with her sympathetic, ‘I care about you’ manner. But he'd recognized danger and thwarted her attempts, however innocent they were. He was beginning to have his doubts about that, too. She seemed too good, too honest, too damn sincere. Nobody had those qualities anymore. At least not the people he knew.

Matt took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. It wouldn't do for her to know she'd gotten to him. And she would be studying him for telltale signs of anger or frustration. Or capitulation. She could watch until she was cross-eyed for all he cared, because capitulating was not in his vocabulary. Attack. Now that was a word he understood very well.

“Enough about me,” Matt said. “Tell me about yourself.” He'd blast that cool exterior away.

Sara coughed, cleared her throat. “Me? Well, there really isn't much to tell.”

He threw her a dry smile. “Of course there is. You don't get to be…How old are you, anyway?”

“Thirty-four,” she said in a tight voice.

“Okay, well, you don't get past the age of three or four and not have a history. So what's yours?” Target sighted. Second round preparing to launch.

“Matthew—”

“Matt,” he corrected.

“Matt, I really don't discuss my personal life with my clients.”

Gotcha. “As well you shouldn't,” he agreed. “But, I’m not your client. Remember? We're just two people having a conversation, and to my way of thinking, I just unloaded a whole heap of emotional garbage. Now it's your turn.” Why was she so reluctant? What was she hiding?

“What do you want to know?” Her voice was distant, muted, as though she were speaking in a tunnel.

“For starters, I'd like to know how you can just pick up and come out here for two weeks.” Missile launched.

“It's my job.”

Good answer. Perfect avoidance tactic, but not clever enough for his former journalistic nose. “No one stopped you. No one cared? No one said, ‘I'll miss you’?”

“No.” Her voice grew dimmer. If she were a battery, she'd be in desperate need of a recharge.

“No husband? No kids? No dog?”

“No.” A single word, prompting hundreds of questions with thousands of possibilities. It reminded him of eighth-grade algebra.

“Why?” Kaboom!

“Why what?”

Sara Hamilton did not want to answer his questions. “Why is there no husband, no kids? Not even a dog?” If he had to be blunt-face bold about it, he would.

“I'm very involved with my work.”

“Too involved to take a minute to have a life?” She was really starting to annoy him.